Unravelled
by auroralightsorchestra
Summary: At fourteen, Fiona was aware that her mother was keeping secrets, but, perhaps selfishly, they never impacted on her life, and so she had never much cared. But then one day they do. And now all of her mother's secrets are spilling out one by one, starting with the fact that fifteen years ago, she nearly brought a nation to its knees, and ending with the identity of Fiona's father.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except for Fiona and Becca.

Story Title: Unravelled

Chapter Title: We Know Who You Are

Summary: At fourteen, Fiona was aware that her mother was keeping secrets, but, perhaps selfishly, they never impacted on her life, and so she had never much cared. But then one day they do. And now all of her mother's secrets are spilling out one by one, starting with the fact that fifteen years ago, she nearly brought a nation to its knees, and ending with the identity of Fiona's father.

Rated: T

.:~{+}~:.

I: We Know Who You Are

.:~{+}~:.

_Present Day: 27 May, 2026: New York City_

.:~{+}~:.

"I'm so glad we're finally out for summer! Exams were a killer this year!"

Fiona shot a pleasant, but ultimately fake, smile at Becca. Fiona hadn't thought that the stuff of 8th grade tests was difficult at all, but then, in reality, her intellect suggested she should be at college despite her young age of fourteen. Not that anyone from school knew that. Her mother had asked her to keep her intelligence on the down-low, though why, Fiona was unable to deduce.

"It will be nice having whole days to ourselves," Fiona sighed truthfully. Pretending to be as stupid as everyone else on a regular basis was exhausting.

"Well, this is my stop," Becca said needlessly. Honestly, why did people feel the need to say the same things over and over, day by day? Fiona was tempted to snap that she knew, but Becca wouldn't understand why she was irritated. As far as she was concerned, Fiona was just like her.

Instead she shot off another insincere smile and wished Becca a nice summer, reluctantly promising after some prompting to stay in touch. It wasn't that she didn't like Becca; no, the blonde was a perfectly nice girl. But the constant façade of pretending to be somebody else was grating.

She was relieved when she got home.

She dug through the pockets of her jeans until she found the edges of her keys, jingling as they came out. The standard metal staircase of nearly all Manhattan apartment complexes creaked with every few steps of her converse-clad feet, and on the fifth floor, she made her way to apartment 511, where she and her mother had lived for the last two years. Before that it had been Philadelphia, before that Tallahassee, before that Dallas, before that, and before that, and before that, all the way back to when she was born in Los Angeles. She assumed that her mother had probably lived even more places than that, considering how much she hated staying in one place for too long, which, as far as Fiona could tell, was a period of about four years maximum.

Though perhaps she hadn't. Her mother never, ever talked about her life before Fiona was born, but as far as she could figure, she thought that her mother must have once been accustomed to a lifestyle that involved copious amounts of money. Fiona had never seen this money in her lifetime, instead living in a series of cramped apartments around the United States, but her mother every so often accidentally gave herself away. Her complaining of not being able to afford designer clothes _anymore_, how she used to love name brand food, etc. Fiona sometimes liked to imagine that she was a love child that her mother had had with some unknown-to-Fiona-though-very-important man and that her mother had consequently been taken out of someone's will or had an inheritance or allowance of some kind cut off.

Not so much anymore though. At fourteen, Fiona was old enough to know that her father wasn't an unknown because of his importance, but rather because he was a worthless deadbeat.

The key scraped as it fit into the lock and she let herself inside-

And abruptly froze.

The place was absolutely _trashed_.

Overturned furniture, loose papers and broken glass littered the floor. The fridge was open and its contents appeared to have been strewn all over the kitchen floor. Fiona stared at the cabinets as yellow egg yolk dripped down them. She shifted uncomfortably, wanting to inspect the rest of the apartment but aware that the intruders may still be there. Eventually, she decided that she needed to check and make sure that her mother hadn't been home when this happened.

She ran through to her bedroom which was just as wrecked as the rest of the place, and then into her mother's bedroom, which, startlingly, was completely untouched except for a single message written in blood red above the headboard. For a moment, Fiona feared it _was _blood, but closer inspection proved it to be New York City's favourite artistic medium; spray paint.

_WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE_

.:~{+}~:.

_Fifteen Years Ago: March, 2011: Karachi_

.:~{+}~:.

"You saved my life," Irene stated into the silence of the hotel room.

"Obvious," the deep baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes snapped irritably.

"Why?" she demanded, ignoring his bad mood.

"You know, most people in your position would say 'thank you'," he scowled.

Irene snorted indelicately. "Yes, because you of all people are the expert on human nature."

His scowl deepened and the room fell once more back into silence as its two occupants stared challengingly at one another.

Sherlock looked away first, nonchalantly brushing a bit of invisible lint off his shoulder. "I have set up a new identity for you in America. I believe that you will enjoy Los Angeles- the people inhabiting the city seem to be as fixated on aesthetics as you yourself are. A studio apartment has had the first month's rent paid in the name of Isabella Adams and is awaiting your arrival. I'm afraid if you wish to move anywhere else in the country, you will have to finance it yourself, from here on out."

Irene sat stunned, ignoring his ill-disguised comment in reference to her vanity. Isabella Adams? Studio apartment? First month's rent paid? This wasn't a random rescue; Sherlock had been planning this for quite some time.

"You arranged a new identity for me?"

"Yes, we have just been over this Irene!" he snapped impatiently, though she thought that she might have seen a flash of discomfort in his eyes from the gratefulness with which she was regarding him.

"Why?" she asked again.

"Contacts are useful. I just saved your life- you now owe me a debt. I have several contacts on the east coast of America, but none on the west."

"How very… business-minded of you," she observed, scanning him carefully. His voice had been cold and clinical as he spoke- even more so than usual. Over the last six months, she'd come to realize that this meant he was hiding something. She watched him intently and- yes. There. The slightest flicker of emotion, of _sentiment_ in his eyes. Sentiment that he was trying to hide from both her and himself.

Having found what she was looking for, she rose from her spot with a wolfish smile, slinking gracefully towards him. His eyes widened ever so slightly in what she suspected was alarm.

How very delightful.

"But all work and no play can make for a very unhappy boy," she purred sultrily.

"Irene-" his tone was a warning, one that she ignored, instead straddling his lap where he sat on the bed. She felt him stiffen, but he did not push her off.

"Oh come now, Mr Holmes. Let a girl thank her saviour properly. Won't you have dinner with me?" she sighed.

His gaze on her was intense, and Irene almost, _almost_ felt uncomfortable under it. But she never shied away.

And eventually, he gave a very short, very sharp nod.

.:~{+}~:.

_Present Day: 27 May, 2026: New York City_

.:~{+}~:.

That message had been too specific for this to be a random… robbery or something. Fiona legged it out of the apartment, no longer feeling safe, and tore down the streets of New York until she found herself in front of Becca's door.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she forced herself to think logically about her situation.

She'd already established that they had been targeted. Thus, the apartment most likely was _not _a safe place to be by herself. Her gut instinct had served her well. Her mother hadn't been there, which most likely meant she was still at work and didn't know what had happened. If she did, she would have called Fiona with a warning to not go back home and an alternative place to meet.

Her breathing evening out, Fiona stood and thought about the message.

_WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE_

Her mind raced. The message was clearly meant for her mother, as it had been in her bedroom. It was true that there were a great many things that Fiona didn't know about her mother, but it had never occurred to her that any of those things might be dangerous.

_WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE_

Even without the ransacking of their apartment to help her along, there was something ominously threatening about such a message, and for the first time it occurred to Fiona that her mother wasn't hiding things specifically from _her_, but rather from the rest of the world. In fact, it sounded very like her mother was in hiding. There was definitely reference to identity in the message, and why would anyone bother to tell Isabella Adams that they knew who she was, unless-

Unless….

Unless she wasn't really Isabella Adams.

The realization left Fiona reeling. Her mother was _in hiding_. The refusal to talk about her life before Fiona, the constant moving around, the fact that she asked Fiona to hide her intelligence- _because genius children draw attention, and attention was the last thing that her mother would have needed_- and oh God, it was all so _obvious_, how had she not seen this _before_?

The question was, was her mother running from someone who had wronged her… or was she herself the wrong-doer?

Fiona shook that thought away. In the grand scheme of things, that was not immediately important. She needed a plan of action. _First things first, get into a secure location and call Mom_.

She clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking and then knocked on Becca's door. She answered straight away and smiled brightly when she saw Fiona.

"Oh, hi Fi! I thought you went home…?"

Fiona forced back a wince. She hated the nickname 'Fi'. She had a perfectly lovely name, why couldn't people just use it? Instead she smiled.

"Yeah, I did, I uh… got bored."

Becca shrugged, opening the door wider and motioning Fiona inside. "Better get used to that. Got a long summer ahead of us. You wanna go up to my room?"

Fiona smiled weakly at Becca, glancing around the hallway. "Um, actually… could I use the bathroom first, please?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!"

.:~{+}~:.

_Fifteen Years Ago: March, 2011: Istanbul_

.:~{+}~:.

"All passengers for the 4:30 flight to Los Angeles, please board now."

Irene Adler, now Isabella Adams, turned to look at the strange beauty that was Sherlock Holmes one last time before she boarded her flight, not knowing when, or indeed _if_, she'd ever see him again.

She sucked in every last detail about him, from the way that he stood rigidly, posture straight, to the ever-so-slight staining of nicotine on his fingers, indicating he'd been smoking more as of late. His dark curls were in perfect order, though she remembered how wild they'd been last night after hours of her running her fingers through them. His lips were still ever so slightly swollen and she could see the deep purple of a love bite just along his shirt collar.

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she knew it was her cue to leave.

With a sad, wistful smile, she reached up and softly caressed a sharp cheekbone. He leaned momentarily into her touch before pulling away.

"You need to go, Isabella," he prompted, and it was odd, hearing that name in his voice. She didn't like it. She wanted him to say Irene again, the way he had last night, over and over and _over_.

She nodded before leaning in for what was very possibly the last kiss she'd ever receive from him. She tried to pour all of her feelings, all of her _love_ into the kiss, so that he might know she loved him without her having to say it.

The returning press of his lips was both gentle and insistent, and it made her heart flutter with hope.

And then he pulled away.

"Go."

.:~{+}~:.

_Present Day: 27 May, 2026: New York City_

.:~{+}~:.

Once in the bathroom, Fiona locked the door behind her and splashed some cold water on her face in an effort to calm down. It didn't help much.

Pulling the lid of the toilet down, she sat and pulled out her cell phone, hurriedly calling the contact listed as 'Mom'.

Riiiiiiing.

Riiiiiiing.

Riiiiiiing.

Riiiiiiing.

"Come on, come on, pick up Mom," she whispered to herself, not having any idea what she'd do if the call went to voicemail.

Riii-click.

"Fiona? I'm at work, you're not supposed to call unless it's an emergency-"

"It is an emergency!" Fiona interrupted, taking note of how her mother was speaking with an American accent. She only did that when there were people other than Fiona around, otherwise she spoke with a cut-glass English accent which Fiona assumed was her true accent. She'd always found it strange, but it had been that way all her life and so she'd not put much thought into it and God, that was stupid, stupid, _stupid_! "Our apartment- I got home today and it was totally trashed! I went through the rooms and they were all totally messed up, except your room. It had a message written on the wall- 'we know who you are'."

Total silence.

Fiona was literally sat on the edge of the toilet seat, her legs bouncing with left-over adrenaline and her eyes wide.

"Mom?" she whispered after a moment, aware she was in someone else's house and that this was a conversation that probably shouldn't be overheard. "What's going on?"

"I'll call you back in five minutes."

"Wha- Mom! No!"

"Five minutes, Fiona."

And then the line went dead.

Fiona stared at her phone in purse-lipped frustration and tried her hardest to keep her anxiety at bay. She quickly switched the phone to silent, not wanting Becca to know she wasn't really using the bathroom. After that, she sat, elbows on her knees and head in her hands while she tried to relax.

It was difficult when the only thought running through her head was _who the hell is my mom_?

The phone buzzed and her hand snapped out quicker than she thought possible to answer it.

"Mom?"

"Did you call the police?" English accent now. That must have been why she needed to call back, so she could go somewhere private.

"I… no." Somehow the thought had never occurred to her.

"Good," her mother sighed with relief from the other end of the line. "Don't. The last thing we need to do right now is draw more attention to ourselves."

"Mom, what's going on? Are you- are you like, in the witness protection program or something?"

"Something like that. Where are you now? Are you safe? You're not still at home, are you?"

"No, I didn't think it was safe anymore. I'm at Becca's house."

"Becca?" her mother was clearly struggling to remember the name.

"School friend," Fiona answered dismissively.

"Excellent. Listen to me, Fiona. I can sort this out, but I need the night to do so. You need to steer the conversation at this friend's house so that she invites you to spend the night, all right?"

"Um, sure. Why does it need to be done at _night_?"

"Because by tomorrow it will be too late."

Fiona didn't ask what it would be too late for. She was too afraid of the answer.

"I'll come for you in the morning, Fiona. I'll explain what's happening then, alright?"

Fiona nodded, but then remembered that her mother couldn't see her. "Yeah, okay."

"And darling?"

Her lip trembled and Fiona had to tip her head back and blink back a few tears. 'Darling' was always the term that her mother used when trying to comfort Fiona, and she'd never appreciated it more than in this moment.

"Yeah?" she asked shakily.

"I love you."

A tear escaped, but she hurriedly wiped it away with the heel of her hand. Crying was useless and would get her nowhere.

"Love you too," she whispered, voice husky with restrained tears.

After her mother hung up, Fiona numbly listened to the dial tone and thought about how less than an hour ago, her life had been, for the most part, utterly average.

Already it seemed like a lifetime ago.

.:~{+}~:.

_Fifteen Years Ago: March, 2011: Los Angeles_

.:~{+}~:.

The airport's air conditioner had broken and though it was only spring, California seemed unbearably hot to English native Irene. She'd been stood at baggage claim for the last ten minutes and still her luggage had not come through. She was jetlagged and hot and cranky and she could still feel her heart breaking, though she'd left Sherlock behind at that airport in Istanbul hours ago, and she swore that if those idiots had managed to lose her luggage-

She had to be angry. Angry was better than crying. Crying was useless and would get her nowhere. Anger was a motivator.

Her luggage finally came within sight, and to Irene's further despair, all the fight drained out of her.

As she stepped out of the airport and onto American soil with the blinding California sunshine in her eyes, the voices that Irene heard were predominantly American. Tan and with too-white teeth, they spoke obnoxiously loudly and seemed to know nothing of the art of subtlety.

Never had she felt so alone, and never had it ever been such a struggle to not think of Sherlock.

No. She was Irene Adler. A dominatrix. Not a lost school girl with a broken heart.

Feeling slightly more confident, she pulled out her brand new passport: _Isabella Adams; Nationality, American_.

Looking up, she took a moment to listen to the American accents around her, silently testing a few words out on her tongue, practicing the roll of the 'r'. After she was satisfied with it, she looked around for someone who looked half-way competent.

"Excuse me," she purred in a flawless American accent to a young twenty-something male with acne who looked like he might explode just from her sultry smile. "Do you know where around here I could get a hotel room for the night?"

.:~{+}~:.

_Present Day: 27 May, 2026: New York City_

.:~{+}~:.

When Fiona emerged from the bathroom, it was to a Becca who wanted to use her houseguest as a living doll. Fiona allowed Becca to do her hair and makeup for her, if only to soften the other girl so that she could spend the night.

"I just love it when people play with my hair!" Becca gushed, pulling a brush through Fiona's thick curls. Fiona wanted to tell her that all that would do is make her hair bushy, but decided against it in favour of grasping the opportunity that Becca had given her.

"It is really nice. Thanks, Becca. I really needed to relax, with the day I've had."

It was quiet for a moment, but Fiona wasn't worried. She knew Becca would take the bait. She was too nosy not to.

"What do you mean? What happened?"

Fiona bit her lip to stifle a self-satisfied smirk.

"Oh, just, you know. Parent stuff."

"What parent stuff?" Becca asked, more eagerly this time.

"Well, it's not a big deal, really. Just that when I got home today my mom and I got in this really big fight. That's actually why I came here. I'm so not looking forward to seeing her again later."

Silence again. Fiona could see Becca in the mirror, biting her lip in contemplation. Fiona tried not to let her legs jiggle, as she often did when she was nervous, or anticipating something.

"Well…" Becca finally spoke, "I'd need to ask my mom, but… maybe you could spend the night here? That way you wouldn't have to see your mom again until tomorrow."

Fiona plastered a wide smile onto her face. "Oh, Becca, really? Thank you so much, that would be great! You know, if you can swing it with your mom."

Becca practically glowed with the praise, and smiled back at Fiona through the mirror. "Yeah, hang on, I'll just go ask."

She watched as Becca left the room and let the smile slide off her face once she was alone. The girl staring back at her in the mirror was not the girl that she was accustomed to seeing. This girl was so pale that the normally faint spattering of freckles across her nose looked stark in her drawn face. Where her blue eyes used to sparkle, they were now wide and dark with anxiety and the healthy flush that usually resided in her cheeks was absent, making her cheekbones look sharper than ever.

She watched dispassionately as her lips thinned in displeasure at her reflection. She felt strange, as though there was a wall inside of her, and her consciousness was on one side of the wall, and her feelings were on the other. She could still sense her feelings, but they seemed distorted, muffled, as though she were disconnected from herself.

"She said yes!" Becca squealed as she skipped back into the room, and Fiona felt a sharp tug back to reality.

Blinking, she reconstructed her earlier smile. "That's great!"

.:~{+}~:.

_Fifteen Years Ago: April, 2011: Los Angeles_

.:~{+}~:.

_It only takes three minutes_, the box proudly, _mockingly _advertised, as though that were an acceptably short amount of time.

Well it wasn't, Irene could now say with authority. It absolutely was _not _an acceptably short amount of time. Three minutes was a fucking _lifetime_.

She glanced once more at the white stick on the bathroom countertop, even though her watch told her that it had only been two minutes. True to the box's word, there was still no change.

She actively avoided looking at the other two sticks. The pink plus sign and the two blue lines both did nothing but mock her.

Many women in her position would ask themselves _how could this have happened_? Irene did not waste her time with such useless questions. In light of her previous profession, she was all too aware of the fact that even when precautions were taken, accidents still happened.

_Beep beep beep beep_

The timer on her phone went off and, a firm believer in getting bad news over with quickly, Irene grabbed the innocuous looking stick off the counter and inspected it for her fate.

_Pregnant_.

.:~{+}~:.

_Present Day: 28 May, 2026: New York City_

.:~{+}~:.

Becca lent her pyjamas as well as a shirt to wear the next day in light of the fact that she'd come over without any clothes. Fiona had just pulled yesterday's jeans back on and tugged the hot pink tank top on, wrinkling her nose at the loud colour in the process. Becca watched from the other side of the couch in the living room as Fiona put her converse on.

"So when's your mom coming again?"

Fiona shrugged, finger-combing a knot out of her curls. "Not sure. She said on the phone she'd probably be about ten minutes, but that was fifteen minutes ago."

Becca nodded. "You okay now? You know, going home? Cause of your fight with your mom?"

Fiona felt herself soften some towards Becca who, though Fiona found her somewhat boring, was being a very good friend towards her.

"Yeah, I'm all cooled off now, thanks. And, um… thanks for letting me stay the night. It was…" she trailed off, attempting to think what the right word would be. The last time she'd stayed over at someone's house, she'd been seven, and all these social niceties hadn't been necessary afterwards. Becca was looking at her attentively though, and she definitely needed to say something soon.

"Fun," was what she finally settled on, and Becca brightened and said she'd had fun too.

An awkward silence was just beginning to creep in when the doorbell rang. Becca's mother rushed past them to answer it, and just a moment later called down the hallway, "Fiona, your mother's here!"

Fiona hopped up from the couch and walked towards the front door, Becca trailing behind. She had to smother a snicker when she saw the awkward distance that Becca's mother had placed between herself and Fiona's own mother. She'd once heard Becca's mother refer to Isabella as 'the lesbian', and though it was untrue, her mother was a bisexual with a leniency towards women, it was still entertaining to watch people from the more conservative side of the fence react to her.

After one last thank you and a hug from Becca that Fiona had to actively avoid flinching away from, not particularly enjoying spontaneous displays of affection, Fiona and her mother were in the car and on their way.

She had of course noticed when they entered the car that it was not _their _car, but she kept quiet. She also noticed that they were heading in the opposite direction of home, but said nothing about that either. It was only when they were so far outside of the city that they hit the countryside that Fiona turned to her mother with wide, anxious eyes.

"Mom, what's going on?"

.:~{+}~:.

**So what do you think? Good? Bad? Atrocious? I would love it if you'd review and let me know whether this is worth continuing. **


End file.
